Our Eyes Aligned Swaddled In Our Civvies
by TarynWanderer
Summary: Sulu and Chekov, soldiers in a trench. Written for a Decemberists prompt, but not a songfic, just song-inspired. Slash.


They had always fought together, they always had each other's back, that was the only thing he was sure of. They were always together, if only by virtue of both being outcasts. They were shunned from card games, the last in line for new boots, rations, liquor, cigarettes. The kid was constantly ridiculed by the other soldiers for his speech impediment, called stupid or worse, even though those big eyes under filthy curls showed far more intelligence to Sulu than anybody else in Regiment Five. Sulu, arguably, got it worse however, for the shape of his eyes, for the way he looked not quite the same as anybody else.

When he allowed himself to dwell on those thoughts, about how stupidly angry he got, how womanish he felt, memories (or dreams) would tug at the back of his mind. Words like "diversity" and "group forming, storming, and norming" surfaced. They didn't have any place in his thoughts, though, and anyway they were kind of faggy – a bunch of guys and broads in brightly coloured shirts standing around talking about "being sensitive".

Nobody in Regiment Five had time for sensitivity, and certainly nobody in Ypres. And as far as he was concerned, the world had only ever been Ypres.

--

It was normal to forget, Corporal Bradley had said, while he forced their fingers over the bolts of their rifles. Soldiers had to be re-taught, again and again, because watching a comrade being blown to bits by a land mine, or catching a fever after two weeks in a rainy trench, or anything else collectively known as "shell shock" knocked it all out of them. Toughen the fuck up, private, he had said to the kid, whose fingers shook over the bolt of the rifle.

It was the same old story with everyone – parents dead, probably, from a bombed out village, nothing left to fight for except each other, and so many comrades died with their heads in each other's laps, or chasing after each other in the blaze of rifle fire. But inside the trench, or the camp, or anywhere else, they only punched each other's soldiers, spoke crudely about women and the enemy, and nobody said what they really meant.

Sulu looked at the kid, at his dirt-stained face, at the too-big helmet strapped to his head, and thought about how he only had one comrade here, really, but even he couldn't tell him everything.

--

The last time they got to bathe, when they were off rotation, briefly, from the trench, Sulu had an idea that maybe this was what they were supposed to be fighting for. The water was cold and dirty already from the other men, but the kid laughed as Sulu squeezed a filthy sponge over his filthy hair, all knobby knees and mangled Vs. As his hair got slightly cleaner, a blondish red shone through, and he looked at Sulu with big blue eyes and flushed, all the way to his ears, across his chest. To Sulu he seemed like a flower in the mud on the battlefield, not like there were many of those, all red and round and proud and vulnerable.

--

Later, knowing that in hours they would be back in the trench, they tumbled onto the lumpy, soiled mattress together, cradled in soft, worn dungarees. They didn't even bother taking off their clothes, tucked away in a corner while other soldiers squabbled and gambled and drank, lit only by a few scant, naked bulbs. They rubbed up against each other, luxuriously, and the kid panted against Sulu's neck, moaning quietly and incoherently. Sulu closed his eyes and rubbed his face on the kid's cheek, soft and silky like a bombazine doll. And it was short, oh so regretfully short, but so was everything else in this place. It was the best memory Sulu had of anything.

They lay, exhausted, sated, eyes aligned. The kid reached up and stroke Sulu's face absently, half asleep. He murmured: Oh, adhere to me, for we are bound by symmetry. And whatever differences our lives have been, we together make a limb.

What is that, Sulu asked, poetry? And the kid said yes, it is very famous poem from... and he trailed off, he opened his eyes a little, looking lost and confused. It is from my home, he said.

--

They were in the trenches again, and it started raining, it beat down for days and days. Sulu would crouch for hours atop the terraced soil, gazing over the top onto the battlefield, rifle at the ready. He impatiently pushed the kid back down whenever he tried coming up, wearing both his and Sulu's coats. He had seen the kid try to fire, and he was a lousy marksman. The enemy, however, they were getting pretty good at spotting a patch of red or yellow hair poking out from under a helmet. Both he and the kid had seen men suddenly fling back, lifeless, while the field lit up with gunfire.

Sulu was starting to think maybe he was a little suited for this life, but the kid wasn't, with his pining for books that weren't just pornography and knowing something besides Ypres and the trenches, wanting to feel alive. Sulu had never felt more alive than the nights they spent huddled up together under the wooden support beams, but he didn't tell the kid that. The kid acted like he was culled from a cartoon, all big eyes and big hopes. He didn't deserve to be here. So every time the kid tried to climb up again, to impress Corporal Bradley who was marching by, Sulu pushed him back down, told him to cover his head, and ignored the flash of indignity on that dirty little face.

He'd rather lose his own limbs than lose Chekov.

--

One night, huddled together in the rain under that wooden arch they had claimed as their own little spot, Chekov started coughing. Sulu was frozen, unable to think with that sound in his head. Chekov smiled up at him weakly and told him not to worry, which was useless. Sulu thought maybe this is what shell shock felt like.

The next morning Chekov snuck him a cigarette, to show him he was still okay and still smart enough to get around, and Sulu inhaled it hungrily. He didn't even remember smoking before this, but it came to him naturally.

--

After four days in the rain, and from lying slightly bent on the lip of the trench in the mud, Sulu's right foot started getting numb, which was a welcome change from the pain. After seven days, it was definitely swollen inside the boot, and the boot wasn't going to come off without a fight.

Chekov noticed his limp, but he avoided the pointed looks and almost-questions. It didn't matter. If he could hold on long enough, and kill enough enemies with his precise, eagle-eyed shooting, maybe he could get Chekov out of here. Who cares if he got trench foot.

Mortars fell harder than usual one night, and there was murmuring that maybe this was it, maybe the other guys were finally caving. Soldiers stared expectantly at the radio, at each other, but even if the end was coming it was going to take a lot more fighting and dying in one night.

Something else was in the sky, something huge and silver and not like anything the enemy could've built. In the middle of the night, in the rain, the battlefield lit up not only from gunfire, but from straight, precise beams of coloured light that rendered people apart instantly.

Sulu couldn't keep Chekov huddled down much longer now, and they lay together on the lip of the trench. Corporal Bradley ran out at some point and was shot in the leg, and they could hear him, wailing in anguish, somehow not being extinguished by all the other violence occurring around him.

Chekov hoisted himself over the trench, and Sulu grabbed his arm, hissing furiously. There's no fucking way you're going out there, Private.

The kid shook his head, filthy curls bouncing. I must, he is in pain, he is our commander. Sulu started climbing up after him but Chekov pushed him back, coughing slightly. No, Hikaru, he said, your foot. And he leaned forward and pressed a kiss against Sulu's no doubt filth-encrusted face, and ran off into the fight.

Sulu stared after him, shocked, and then little dust balls of lights swirled suddenly around Chekov. And he blazed away.

Sulu cursed, loudly, and dragged himself up onto the battlefield, running as fast as he could with a considerable limp and a dead foot. He almost reached the spot where Chekov had been, near the felled Corporal Bradley when he, too, blazed away.

--

He found himself in an impossibly clean and bright room, surrounded by impossibly clean and bright people in vibrant colours. Chekov was there, collapsed on a platform, and soon so was he, and they were whisked away through blindingly white corridors that made Sulu think of heaven, and they lay in a sterile room on beds very near each other.

A tall man in blue was growling at everyone to get out of his way, and was deeply offended at the sight of gangrene after he cut off Sulu's boot. A faggy looking guy in yellow was fairly screaming about stupid backwards brainwashed war games and never going to join the Federation until the man in blue kicked him out of the room.

Sulu's head spun, confused, memories crashing into each other and lights flashing in his eyes. He looked over at his brother in arms on the other bed, who looked back, skin singed. He reached out his arm and the kid took his hand. Maybe they had made it to heaven.


End file.
